


Without Warning

by XvoodooXXblueX



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Drunkenness, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:12:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XvoodooXXblueX/pseuds/XvoodooXXblueX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is shot and while watching over him during recovery, Grantaire accidentally confesses his love for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without Warning

**Author's Note:**

> Little thing that popped into my head. Finally, my first Les Mis fic.

**Without Warning**

One of the upper rooms of the Musain had temporarily been turned into a makeshift hospital room and Jehan, suppressing a feeling of dread, tried not to wonder how permanent they might eventually have to make this arrangement.

Enjolras lay still on the bed, the only reassurance provided by the steady rise and fall of his chest. He was sleeping, peacefully, finally, due to the medication Combeferre had provided. Enjolras had been offered a hospital room, but had flat-out refused to go, even in as much pain as he’d been in. He’d trust no doctor, no matter how well-trained or experienced, above Combeferre and Joly and Jehan had to admit that Enjolras’ attitude might have rubbed off on him and a few others, for they had given in fast to their leader’s refusal.

Jehan heard a shuffling by the door and he turned in the chair he’d been occupying at Enjolras’ bedside. Grantaire stood in the doorway, looking sad and sick and drunk. It made Jehan frown. Grantaire rarely looked this obviously drunk. He might have often acted it or sounded it. Might have shown his inebriation in the way he moved or in an inability to do much moving, but the usual multitude of airs that accompanied these episodes now seemed stripped away completely. It seemed, Grantaire had run out of will to keep them up and Jehan did not blame him. These last two days had shaken them all deeply.

Jehan offered a smile and hoped it might counteract some of the hollowness he could see in his friend’s gaze. His heart ached to see that it made no difference. Slowly, he got up from where he sat. They’d all taken turns in holding vigil over Enjolras and Jehan wasn’t quite sure if this was Grantaire claiming his turn. For a moment it looked as if Grantaire wasn’t sure either in the way he’d made a small move further into the room and then faltered. But then, albeit unsteadily, he stepped up next to the chair, his gaze riveted to the floor, looking neither at Jehan nor Enjolras. Jehan would have felt more comfortable had Grantaire not been as drunk as he apparently was, but he wouldn’t begrudge him this much-needed reassurance. Maybe if he saw that while injured, Enjolras was not close to dying, Grantaire would feel better, too.

Jehan leaned over the bed and gently pushed a lock of sweat-soaked hair from Enjolras’ forehead. The fever was still clinging to him, but raged less violently, now.

Moving past, Jehan clapped a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Call me if you need to, if anything happens. I’ll be close-by and Combeferre is asleep downstairs.”

Grantaire nodded silently and only lifted his gaze from the floor once Jehan had left. It inevitably landed on Enjolras, taking him in as he lay there, sweating from the fever, his face pale but his cheeks flushed. This was wrong, Grantaire thought, wanted to scream. Enjolras looked a lot less formidable now, somehow so much smaller, yet no less beautiful. But it was so, so wrong. And all because some stupid little shit of inexperienced officer apparently hadn’t known how to fire a damn warning shot. No, instead, he’d just simply shot Enjolras. They’d only been handing out pamphlets, for Christ’s sake.

Grantaire raised the bottle he’d brought along with him to his lips; absinthe, now, for an hour, or so. He’d drank himself beyond being able to bear the taste of wine, but even more so, the look of it. It had been red; red as the blood he’d seen soak through Enjolras’ shirt. The thought of it made Grantaire feel sick but he chased the feeling down and let the bottle slide to the floor from a limp hand.

The silence was almost complete, if not for the odd sound from downstairs and Enjolras’ quiet breathing. It was Enjolras who was keeping Grantaire sane. It was always Enjolras. Grantaire sighed heavily, with a pained chuckle.

“I love you, you know,” he said, because he was too drunk to censor his words and Enjolras was asleep on the pain medication he’d been given. And because Grantaire did. Love Enjolras, that was.

There was a beat of silence and then Enjolras twitched on the bed. His eyes opened to slits once or twice and he reached and scrabbled blindly with his hand. Grantaire nearly jumped five feet out of his chair. He hadn’t been expecting Enjolras to wake up so soon.

He moved over to the bed and caught Enjolras’ searching hand in a bid to keep his arm still. Grantaire wasn’t sure what too much movement would do to Enjolras’ still-fresh wound. A horrible rasping sound came from Enjolras and Grantaire took a second to realise that the other man was trying to speak. His eyes widened and he hurried to sloppily pour some of the water from a nearby jug into a mug. It sloshed down the sides a little, but Grantaire barely noticed, too focused on restoring some comfort to Enjolras’ vocal chords as they awkwardly manoeuvred Enjolras into a sitting position.

They managed, eventually and while it had taken almost all the energy Enjolras had, at least he’d be able to speak more easily and his eyes were open, though clouded by pain, exhaustion and medication.

“Grantaire…,” Enjolras murmured and again moved to reach out. This time, Grantaire instinctively took his hand and held it.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras tried again, as if he were trying to convey something but couldn’t quite manage.

At that moment a terrifying thought hit Grantaire and now the thought he might truly be sick. He made a startled, strangled sound in the back of his throat and if one of his hands hadn’t been entwined in Enjolras’, he might have been able to hide his face.

“Did- Did you hear?” Grantaire stammered. Oh God, had Enjolras really heard when Grantaire had spoken earlier?

Enjolras nodded, just barely.

Grantaire’s expression turned horrified. “Oh, God.”

Incredibly, Enjolras managed a small twitch of the lips, a barely-there smile and he squeezed Grantaire’s hand lightly.

“We should talk,” he said and it was little more than a whisper, a waif-shadow of his usually so strong voice.

“Not now,” Enjolras continued. His eyes were slipping closed again fast and he was blinking with the effort of keeping them open.

“Soon…” And he drifted off to sleep again.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't thank those who have already commented enough for your super sweet comments and by popular demand I will continue this fic when I've decided where I want it to go. Thanks, everyone, for reading.


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